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forestbathing

forestbather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreams Are Not Made Of Stone

a writer and a sculptor
come from the opposite ends
of the spectrum

the sculptor starts with a chunk of stone
and whittles it down
and the writer picks up the chips
and rearranges the bits

and of course
though the writer may glance at a face
they would rather know what's to hide inside
while the sculptor is quite content
to remove blemishes from skin

suffice to say
a character without blemish
makes for one short book
and though I may fondle Aphrodite's marble behind 
when in Rome
it is the woman inside a book
whose lips are carved in my dreams